Bernal Litterai [sic]

San Francisco authors read from their work. That means you, too.
San Francisco located stories given preference.

Loose-leaf authors
scat
ter
words in
the wind sha
dow
of a library


Here's a recent work read:

Between the heat and Greta Thunberg lies the whole of America,
Still romancing road trips
Sky trips
Cheap stuff from Amazon
And a mythos that if only you had the expanse of a continent
You'd be as righteous and grand and pious and independent
As George Washington, who raped black women to supply his
Substitute for fossil fuels


And another:

Jack Hirschman

Jack the magnificent translator,
The charge d'affaire of North Beach plump words to the world,
Drank his Stalinovich vodka with a bobbing scoop of ice cream,
Then took to the air waves with a little murmur,
Trailing Italian and Spanish rime into the brisk begotten vaporous sky above Coit Tower.

I hosted him once,
He and four others;
Paid them car fare to Bernal.

And now?
His slushy pronunshiation
Won't fit into a single poem or eulogy,
But comes spilling out the alleys and cracked windows
Of the little town smelling of focaccia if you wake early enough.
Aye, North Beach.
Aye, aye, Jack Hirschman.
You've escaped the neighborhood and gone on tour.

And one more:

Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

The neat, sweet, and big as life stenciled stick-on film
Adheres to windows beautifully:
Black
Lives
Matter

Yet when I wonder out loud,
"Enough to end the private ownership of the Earth?"
The shushing begins.

I guess if you peel that lettering on film off your window
There's no need to feel like a dog in heat,
Humping everybody's morality trousers

And you can go back to backing Trump
By default as he collects the ground rent
at 500 California Street.